


I am One Hundred and Twenty-Five Percent in Love with You

by VivelaFrance24601



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Courferre Week, Death, Drabble, First Person POV but dont let that discourage you, I dont know what else to add, M/M, Oh wait i have another tag, Pining Courfeyrac, Sad, its so sad, really though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivelaFrance24601/pseuds/VivelaFrance24601
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac never told Combeferre that he loved him.</p><p>Or, the ridiculously sad drabble written for Courferre week consisting of a rally, a single bullet, and generous references to blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am One Hundred and Twenty-Five Percent in Love with You

**Author's Note:**

> This is written in first person point of view, with Courfeyrac being the narrator. I don't really like to use first person that much, but I tried writing this in the third person, and to be honest, it was really bad. I mean, this still isn't my best, but the third person attempt was even worse.
> 
> Oh, and there are some errors in this because I don't like to edit my work before I post it (that's how I roll), but I will fix any of the ones that are bothering you :D Just let me know if you want anything fixed. I feel like errors make authors who they are, so I like to keep mine in my attempts at writing decently.

The rally started out just like any other. It really did. I swear.

I was standing next to Combeferre in the crowd, fifty percent listening to Enjolras speak from his podium, but seventy-five percent not-so-discreetly watching, or staring obtrusively, as some would call it, at Combeferre handing out pamphlets. I actually did that often, "did," being a key word.

Combeferre was definately worth staring at.

And yes. That math is absolutely correct because that adds up to one hundred and twenty-five percent, and I am nothing, if not an over-achiever (and may I also add, pardon the pun, that math is not my forte).

But back to the real story:

As I was practically staring a whole through Combeferre's beautiful face (it wasn't even handsome, it was literally beautiful enough to be an angel's face; no offense to you, Enjolras, but Combeferre was way more beautiful than you in my opinion), that was when the gunshot rang out.

I didn't even know what happened at first. I thought that a car just backfired, but I was wrong.

Boy, was I wrong.

That was when I saw Combeferre. It was like the world froze and it was only me and him.

And it wasn't my beautiful Combeferre that I will never stop loving, but it was a half-conscious, covered-in-blood Combeferre. It was an image that I still have nightmares to this day, three years after that fateful (pardon the cliché) rally.

Then the screaming started. It was an ear-shattering shriek combined with wretched sobs. It hurt just listening to it. 

But the best part was that that horrible noise was coming from me. Me, of all people. I mean, really. I'm better than that. Why did it have to be me screaming?

But then I remembered why I was screaming and snapped out of it. Why did I even care if I was screaming? My Combeferre was laying bloody on the ground and I was just standing there and screaming like a little girl.

My therapist says I'll forgive myself one day, that it wasn't even my fault even, but I don't think I ever will.

In the time that I was frozen screaming, I could have been putting pressure on the torn carotid artery that the bullet whizzed straight through.

I could have slowed the bleeding enough to keep him alive when the ambulance arrived.

Instead, I just watched, as did the other shell-shocked rallyers around me, as my best friend and secret true love bled to death on the ground in front of me.

I watched the blood bubble out of the corner of his mouth.

I watched as blood gushed over the lawn of the college campus we were at and turned it a muddy red.

I watched as his eyes locked with mine and I could see the shock and pain in them.

I watched as he tried to reach his hand towards me and it just slapped back limply onto the pavement.

I watched as he mouthed my name, the last time I would ever see his lips move again, without ever being able to press mine against his.

I watched the life filter slowly from him, draining away with the blood that poured from his neck.

I watched his glassy eyes still locked with mine.

I watched as my heart broke.

Combeferre was dead, and it was all my fault.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! There may possibly be a second little follow-up chapter, but that will only be written if I'm feeling ambitious. I might also do Combeferre's point of view, just because I can. I know I probably just ruined your Courferre week with this (I even ruined mine by writing this it's just so sad), but I hope you liked it anyway!


End file.
